


Scars

by orphan_account



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Depression, Guilt, Healing, Multi, background desran because it owns my ass forever, i love randall a lot, part of this is kind of randall being a bitter ex, though descole diiiiid sort of betray randall so he has every right to, uhhhh this is just 453873548975342 words about randall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 14:10:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10968858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There are times when he just wants to burn, and never look back.





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> i love randall a lot i care about him and want him to be happy  
> i say as i write about randall having severe depression

There are  
_scars._  
Of course the first couple of scars came solely from pure recklessness, falling off of rocks and trees as a young child, as a preteen, in his late teens. Those were ones that had faded over time, though there’s still that rather big one on his left forearm that he got when he was twelve, after falling off of a tree a sharp branch went right through his arm, Hershel and Angela shrieking Bloody Mary while Dalston looked positively ill and Henry was running off somewhere to go get help. In all honesty, through the tears, it was kind of interesting.  
Moving on.  
There are other scars, too, ones from mishandled tools and knives (he was no cook, nearly chopped his hand off once), but there are still the scars from the time he _~~fell~~_ , wind howling in his ears as Hershel just _screamed_ and the only other thing Randall could hear was the rushing water and his heart pounding in his throat, the Mask of Chaos gripped tightly in his hand and he had been holding it for so long it was warm, like it was alive, beating, breathing, malicious. _The Mask had brought nothing but grief,_ he had thought idly right before he hit water, it had been an interesting find at first but then Angela had broken down and taken it and now this-- now this. _I’m going to die,_ was his last thought before he lost consciousness, and that was that.  
Falling into a chasm and into a river rapid was not, as one might conclude, good for the body. Randall had suffered an obscene amount of damage from that, and when Firth had found him he was a bloody mess with cracked glasses and dozens of gashes and cuts all over the teenager’s wiry body. That damage hasn’t healed, and every time Randall looks at himself in the mirror there is a wave of self-loathing that washes over him-- wishes he wasn’t so damaged, wishes that he was more damaged, wishes that he had died and never caused this much hurt to the people that he loved-- before he shrugs it off and goes to get dressed.  
It still hasn’t gone away, though, that huge one on his back. He was lucky that that-- that rock, or the branch or whatever it was, he was lucky (“lucky,” he had thought with a bitter laugh) that it hadn’t pierced straight through his body, only hurt his flesh, only a flesh wound, but by _god_ does it make him feel horrible. There is another one, a big one on his face from when he was barely awake in the rapid, clinging to a log and holding the mask-- a mask he did not recognize-- in his hand tighter than anything because he _needed_ to hold onto it, though he particularly didn’t know why there was a dull thought in his mind that he needed to keep it for whatever reason. It was all he had other than the positively shredded clothes on his back and his own life to hang onto. He wasn’t watching where he was going, barely conscious, and didn’t even notice the enormous gash on his cheek that cut into his flesh that was dripping with crimson blood.  
It’s a mark on his face, that for some ungodly, unnatural reason, hasn’t gone away for eighteen years, a constant reminder of his faults and crimes from which that he was completely exempt from consequence except from himself. Everyone is content to look the other way and excuse him but he isn’t-- he’s the only one who thinks he deserves some sort of punishment and the lack of anyone trying to give him retribution makes him sick to his stomach. Punishment comes in nightmares, nightmares of sand spilling out of his throat, dry and cracking his vocal chords, dehydration and suffocation swimming through his body as he tries to choke out a breath but can’t, and the only assurance he has to cling to was that he, by all accounts, deserves to suffer, and is almost disappointed when Angela continues to rouse him from sleep telling him that he was suffocating in his sleep just a few moments earlier. For a moment there is a dry thought that tells him that he shouldn’t have woken up from what was probably his execution given through dreams, sand spilling out and burning his throat like every granule is a burning star that is exploding, destroying his body from the inside out and not giving him any reprieve, because he does not deserve reprieve, he deserves to burn along with that god-forsaken mask, along with the last remaining flickers and scraps of the Azran that brought so much hate into his soul, so much grief into the souls of those he cared about. It’s a cruel irony, the thing he was so interested in-- the thing he loved so very much, killing him. Burning in his wake of pure anger and self-loathing that chokes him and rocks him to his very core, like a sickness, like he’s some sort of bomb that just hurts everyone around him-- either by purely annoying them with his accidental brazen personality or actually hurting them, donning that mask or otherwise.  
He feels _guilty_ , and the scars slashed haphazardly all over his frame are a testament to that-- nothing that he gave himself on purpose (not like he hadn’t had that thought cross his mind, but he wouldn’t want Angela to worry), but there’s other ways he punishes himself; skipping a meal, denying himself daily needs, or just flat-out staying in bed all day because he doesn’t want to face anyone, much less the burdens of living.. And he feels _selfish_ , selfish because he isn’t thinking about how others would feel and he knows it. It’s a cruel cycle, thinking he should just die and the only thing holding him back was the pure guilt constricting his chest at the thought of Angela and Henry and Hershel and everyone who waited so long for him, waited so long for an ill and broken man who wished that they had forgotten all about him so that he could fade away in peace, and it just isn’t fair-- it isn’t fair that these genuinely good people care about a man who doesn’t deserve to be cared about, it makes him want to scream, to destroy things, because the guilt was crushing him and it’s all just  
so  
unfair.  
There are moments where he can forget about it, days where the guilt isn’t quite so heavy, days where he can walk around with a smile, animatedly chatting away with Angela and Henry about something or other and his mind is free of troubles but immediately after it hits him like a freight train and he just retreats into his bedroom to bury himself either in his sheets or in his work, anything to get his mind off of it. He was unhealthy, he wished he was still amnesic and was free of any burden, free of guilt, but at the same time the complete unfairness of it all is balanced by the contentment that maybe the perpetual guilt wracking his brain is his punishment, his own mind attacking itself for being given things he does not deserve.  
It is so difficult to breathe.  
He wants to heal, but there’s a large part of him that just wants to burn, burn like he wanted Monte d’Or to about a year ago. He wants to burn, petals of red and orange and yellow licking at his skin, charring it, rising and rising at pure heat engulfing him and destroying him, tongues of flame growing and growing and just killing and killing and _killing_ because it is what he deserves, and he wants himself to burn but he also just wants to burn  
~~him~~.  
He was a serpent, mask and cape drawing Randall in and speaking sweet words, something that Randall couldn’t help but believe because he-- ~~Descole~~ \-- was so kind and soothing and it was something to hold onto, something to hold onto amongst those now-forgotten feelings of anger towards Henry, towards the man he thought betrayed him, and Descole was his one solace, drawing him in and holding him, so loving and so caring. Descole was his one safety, and thinking on it now he just feels _bitter_. Heartbroken, more than anything, betrayed by a man he thought was his friend-- maybe more than that? Who knows-- either way, he was just bitter. Angry. The anger was a curious feeling, though-- Randall didn’t feel and form of furious emotion at Descole, no malice, no want to hurt him; rather, Randall wanted to leave him behind. He wanted to leave Descole behind in a sour moment just like how Descole did him, though he doubted he would ever see Descole again, so he had to deal with bitter emotions and resentment that just made him so tired. The anger would just make him tired, would make him furious, and it was just an unfair, unfair cycle that he didn’t know how to deal with it all. As a teenager Randall was extraordinarily vocal about his emotions, when he felt down, angry, elated, et cetera, he’d be sure to voice it to Henry or Angela or Hershel with arms wide open, eyes wide and full of whatever emotion he was feeling.  
Nowadays, though, he’s feeling so many different things that he just opts to bottle it all up and try to deal with it himself. He’s become rather good at it, in his opinion, brushing everything off with a smile and-- however fakely-- saying something reassuring with a dramatic flourish and eyes sparkling.  
“I’m fine,” he’d say, “just a smidge tired, nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix!”  
He can’t hold onto that excuse forever. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in years, choked by nightmares of sand suffocating him, or falling down a chasm, or the mask taking control of him and making him do abhorrent things. He is afraid, he is bitter, he is resentful, he is furious, but he is so, so, tired, and he can’t tell anyone.  
There are days when Angela and Henry catch on, spending all day with him just to make him feel better. There are days when Randall feels comfortable enough to simply vent, to tell Angela or Henry how he’s feeling, though he’s bad at articulating it beyond ‘I feel guilty’ sometimes. Sometimes, though, he’s able to paint exactly how he’s feeling, explains how he wants to burn (though those times are with Henry, Randall suspects that it would just horrify Angela) and how he feels like he doesn’t deserve any of this, how he was living in a house built on someone else’s success.  
And Henry’s face would shift to that of a tired smile, before he would reach over and put a hand on Randall’s knee before giving him a short, hasty kiss, and Randall closes his eyes. It was nice, these short moments of relief where he could worry about anything other than himself.  
“Master Randall, you’ve been through so much. You don’t have to agree with me, but from my perspective, you deserve this more than anyone in the world.”  
Randall’s eyes well up with tears and he quickly wipes them away before letting out a sigh. “I still feel guilty.”  
“That’s perfectly fine, Master Randall, but you need to forgive yourself. You need to start to heal.”  
And after exchanges like this, Randall and Henry (or Randall and Angela, depending on who he was venting to) would leave the room and walk into the parlor, where Angela (again, or Henry) would be waiting, and the three wouldn’t say a word and would just sit on the couch together, Randall in the middle.  
It is a vicious cycle of self-loathing stemming from a mistake he made as a child, young and dumb, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, before being manipulated by a man who he could have sworn looked regretful right before Randall had tried his final ‘miracle’ a year ago. He could have sworn that there was some sort of inhibition lingering, though the trust had been shattered right after that man had admitted to using him the entire time.  
There is resentment, there is fire. There are scars, but they are healing.  
He is healing.

**Author's Note:**

> gib me kudos and comments, it makes my year  
> my tungle can be found at http://deoxys-official.tumblr.com


End file.
